Kause of Deth
by HeartOfObsidian
Summary: Skwisgaar's stint in an American high school. Nathan wonders if football is what he wants to do with his life. Pickles is in another band. Murderface gets into the FFA. Toki finally makes a friend. Will Dethklok ever be formed?
1. Chapter 1

Most people didn't know that Skwisgaar was actually good in school. Not the best, he was only the best at guitar. For anything else, if he had to put forth too much effort things just didn't get done, but it seemed, for Swisgaar Skwigelf, that most things came easy. English was not one of those. Too many rules. Math had rules, physics had rules, but those rules didn't try to change_ him_.

Mrs. Breckinmeyer, unholy teacher of English was considering Skwisgaar with a very sour expression behind her horn-rimmmed glasses indeed. She definitely wanted to change him.

"The grade on your last assignment -- I couldn't even comprehend half of it." Red ink riddled the lines of the paper she pushed to him from across her desk. "You are going to dry up all my fountain pens. This paper looks like it has been murdered."

"Metal."

"_Kuksugare _is not an English word."

This elicited a brief but hearty chortle from the young Swede. "Describes many English 'dos."

"What is the definition?"

"For me, its means beautiful lady nearly always."

"Okay, I am just going to have to find someone to tutor you before we get too far along in the school year. It is the beginning of October, you have a lot of time to work on this and jazz up your English vocabulary. Don't let your foreign nationality stop you, you are quite... driven when you want to be." Mrs. Breckinmeyer was being rather generous. She was sure he had the drive to play guitar, and sex drive like any other high school aged boy.

"Whys? I am not going to bes here the whole times. I's goings back to Sweden whens my mothers endorsements deals is done." The sooner the better, he thought, before his mom screwed one 'American guy with a hot accent' too many and he ended up with a sibling.

"Yes, I've seen your mother's commercials," she replied dismissively. "You are my responsibility as long as you are enrolled here. You still need to learn the material in this class. It reflects on me, are you trying to make me look bad? Furthermore," she continued, changing the subject to avoid seeing his eyes glaze over, "I want you to stop insulting little boys in my hallway."

"I's does not ins-nults anyones. I justs points out whats I see."

"Did that young man have a dildo?"

"Whats you mean?"

"This morning. You said the young man's art work looked like a dildo, did the boy make a dildo?"

"Oh. Hah. He made sirs-am-icks guitars. Art class is dildos. Everythings he does is dildos. But actuallies, it really dids looks like a dildos now thats I thinks abouts it!"

"Dildos," she snapped in a mock-Scandinavian accent that didn't quite fit Norwegian, Danish, or Swedish "is not the correct usage. Since you seem intent on using it every day, repeat after me: Your artwork looks like a Dill-do. _A dildo_, Skwisgaar. Dildo is not an adjective, it is a noun. You do know what a noun is?"

"Yous have great legs, Mrs. Breckins-meyers," Skwisgaar said, circumnavigating her desk and sidling up to her. "I've _noun_ that since my firsts days here. But whats is with the poofs of your hairs? I ams thinkings your hairs looks like a _dildos_." Skwisgaar all but cooed the last word, making it clear that he thought his usage of English was fine. She wasn't sure if he actually understood noun and known were not the same word, however.

She sighed heavily. She wanted to change him, but she'd settle, for the moment, for just having him.

"It is a bouffant style. It was quite popular in the 60s. And thank you," she replied as Skwisgaar traced the swirl of blue vein beneath the paper-thin skin of her calf. Her husband had never paid this much attention to her, even before she developed varicose veins and had four kids and hollowed out breasts by the time she was thirty. Suddenly long fingers spread across her leg, nearly cupping it. Mrs. Breckinmeyer tensed quickly and one prescription shoe fell to the floor.

"Still, it would be more effective as an insult if said correctly," she said, plunging her foot back into her shoe and swiveling her chair to tuck her legs back under her desk. "You're trying to make me look bad, aren't you?"

Skwisgaar sucked in a quick breath through his teeth, thinking of how Mrs. Breckinmeyer looked. He leaned in closer to look her over, his gaze languishing over her body as if the hills of her breasts were hard to get past. He looked up, his beautiful pale face haloed by golden hair, and whispered: "I ams making yous looks _naked, _Mrs. Breckins-meyers_._ And its looks _goods_."

His lips were so full, so soft, and best of all, they spoke her name with such reverence. Faulty English be damned.

"I have another class due in here in twelve minutes."

"Lets thems watch."

"Get out, Skwisgaar. You know the rules."

Rules. He hated rules. Rules were dildos. But Mrs. Breckinmeyer's rules at least ensured he would get what he wanted, whether she knew it yet or not. It was only a matter of time. Skwisgaar would let it slide. He straightened up, swept his hair back behind him and turned to leave the classroom knowing she would watch him go.


	2. Chapter 2

"Jeeschus, will you juscht come on." William Murderface swore under his breath as his goat fell over for the fourteenth time.

God damn James Goatwhore and the whole Goatwhore family line. They were nothing but corrupt law enforcement officers and goat fuckers, hence the name. If James was going to give him a defective goat he could have at least brought it to his house.

He was at a loss for ideas. He knew he couldn't get the goat into his jacked up '79 bronco. He only hoped that once he got the goat out to it, he'd have come up with a backup plan. His first one hadn't worked out too well. He tried persuading his grandmother for use of her scooter. She was getting her foot callouses sanded down and she didn't have to be mobile for that. He could have tied his old radio flier wagon to the scooter, tipped the goat in, and towed it the four blocks it took for him to get home from school.

"William, thatsch _schtupid_," Stella Murderface had told her grandson. "I'd beat your grandfather half to death and parade his tcheating carcass around town in schomething like that if I caught him with Barbara Jo Johnson again but a goat? Thatsch juscht... thatsch inconschiderate. Don't be laschy. Walk it home."

_Inconsiderate_ was making your grandson cut into his jam time to show goats and not letting him borrow your scooter to get the defective fucking animal home. _Not _being _lazy_ was sanding your own damn foot callous. _Walk it?_ Right.

He mused over what could be wrong with it. At first he thought it had died on him the way it fell over with all four legs in the air. But it kept getting back up. It could be tired; a nocturnal goat. Or maybe clumsy, hungover, or nervous -- like having stage fright. Stage fright Murderface could understand. That's why he jammed at home. Or used to. He suddenly remembered why James brought the goat to school instead.

It should have been a guys night. Music, barbecue, minimal interaction with his grandparents. What it was was horrible. Stella discovered Thunderbolt with Barbara Jo Johnson. In front of all Murderface's friends she chased the lusty pair, nude, pink and wrinkly, trying to maim them with her grab and reach until the battery on her scooter ran down.

That was over a year ago and Murderface still couldn't eat anything vaguely tubular. Not after seeing his grandfather naked, barreling through the trailer park's loose gravel for dear life, his junk bouncing as he ran. Like an unearthed grub worm with too much skin. Like the raw sausage Murderface had prepared to grill.

He could forgive James just this once. But he still couldn't carry home 90 pounds of dead weight.

"I know what schtage fright isch like," Murderface began, trying a sympathetic approach. It sounded very unnatural and forced in his raspy, lisping voice. "I wasch in a schpelling bee once, you know, a contescht, not an actual bee. I fucking hate beesch. They sting you in the face, the arm, the asch-hole, whatever thosche bashtardsche can get their schtingersch at!"

Murderface paused his tirade just in time for the goat to go down. For the fifteenth time. He took a deep breath.

"I frosche up on my firscht word," he continued, trying to be patient. "It wasch a real schame, becausche I'm a great schpeller. The word wasch Murder. Can you believe that schit, I fucked up schpelling murder..." Unknown to Murderface, the goat began to wag it's tail, heralding recovery. But Murderface prematurely resumed tugging on the rope and the goat resumed it's prostrate position.

"M-E-R-D-U-H-R. Murder. Scho schtupid. Everybody laughed." Drag.

"Then my grandmother beat the hell out of me with her grab and reachsh. Sche almoscht cut my dick off with that claw thing. I schtill have nightmarsche about that." Drag.

A huge black truck gunned it out of school parking only to U-turn and slam on the breaks along side Murderface. The engine was loud and the truck belched strong fumes the color of charcoal. Any hopes Murderface had of the goat rising of it's own accord were immediately dashed. He was about to give the driver a good cussing until a large guy with slightly greased black hair barely falling into his face stuck his head out.

"What's up?"

Murderface recognized Nathan immediately. They had played football together. Murderface decided to forgo the team when he realized it was all about grabbing other sweaty men in skin-tight clothes.

"Juscht... FFA schtuff."

"What are you doing after school? I mean now. Like right now."

Nathan's scowl always seemed etched on his face but he was looking even more pissed off than usual. Murderface looked from Nathan to the goat. He had been dragging it forever -- since 2:00, practically. His eczema was beginning to itch and his frizzy, short-cropped afro was wilting with sweat. His beady green eyes cut to his watch. 2:09. He was still about three feet from the edge of the parking lot. He wasn't getting anywhere.

"I'm tying thisch fucker to a tchree and getting in your tchruck." The goat could lay on the ground all it wanted to. He would come back with a plan later.

"Good. I uh. I need some information."

Murderface encircled the nearest sapling tree with the goat's lead and crossed the asphalt to hoist himself into Nathan's truck.

"Fort Schumter, North Carolina. April 12, 1861."

"What?"

"The Schivil War, that's when--"

"I already took that test. It's about..." Nathan mumbled something Murderface couldn't quite catch.

"Yeah?" Murderface prodded cautiously.

Nathan centered his eyes on the road. Hearing the passenger door slam he pressed a heavy foot on the gas. Murderface planted both booted feet into the floorboard for reinforcement and the goat, mysteriously standing now, disappeared quickly into the distance.

"It's about _my girlfriend._"

"You're back on? What about the girl who was bl--"

Nathan gave a deep, dissatisfied grunt. How many fucking people knew about that? "What can you tell me about --" he paused, unsure, his mouth curved in a half snarl. "That guy? Uh. You know. That blond foreign jackoff."


	3. Chapter 3

Livy wasn't one for gossip. She got to the point as quick as her widows peak and was twice as sharp. Few things gave her pause but the gossip around school was making her head swirl. Things were getting complicated.

It was the rumors, mostly. Nathan and Emily were "off-again", supposedly over a drunken blow job in a dark room from an anonymous admirer. Possibly male. Possibly Skwisgaar. That was good, it made Livy laugh. The latest buzz was that Emily was hot for Skwisgaar and that made Livy laugh too. Skwisgaar was a heartthrob but he couldn't hold a candle to Nathan Explosion.

At lunch time, eager for the companionship of someone entirely oblivious to high school scandal, Livy scanned the concrete courtyard for the Norwegian. He could be juvenile but Livy tried to look out for him, having immigrated herself, once. Toki's English had improved greatly, but his friendships hadn't. He came from a boy's home and _those_ misfits ignored him. They could tell he was easy prey.

"Hies Livy" the Norwegian said as she approached the picnic table where he sat alone. He looked at her with dark raccoon eyes which at first glance she mistook for bruises. It was a striking look, but it would probably attract the wrong kind of attention.

"Ven I said you'd look good in eyeliner, I didn't mean this much." Without Toki's consent she dabbed at his eyes thinning the makeup for him. He smiled kindly, but the warmth didn't reach the rest of his face, like a blanket long outgrown.

"You vant some of my lunch?" Livy wanted to cheer him up.

"Is its pickled herrings sandwich?" He asked, smelling something slightly sour. He _missed_ that.

"Um... no," Livy said, unfolding potatoes and sauerkraut.

He knew it was too good to be true. "No t'anks."

"Vat is wrong?" Livy's voice made Toki's heart crinkle in his chest. Concern. That was a rarity. Toki wasn't sure what to say. His command of English was hit or miss, and his German vocabulary was nil. The problem was, Toki liked making things. Model air planes, macaroni art, ceramic guitars. But people made fun of him for it. In fact, people made fun of him all the time. He had thought if perhaps, like Skwisgaar Skwigelf, he _made_ _music_ instead...

"Peoples makes fun of me alots. I's _smalls._ Girlys. Gays. Dildos." That last word Toki didn't understand, but he knew he had failed to impress Skwisgaar and that _couldn't_ be good.

"Are you any of those things? Don't let it get to you." She spoke rhetorically but Toki's eyes misted, betraying his introspection.

Livy witnessed much of the teasing firsthand, but she thought it only happened because Toki allowed it. He wasn't really small, he was just younger than the company he kept. He wasn't especially feminine either. His large hands were made for work, his cheek bones strong, the bridge of his nose straight as a blade. Then again, his pale eyes glittered brightly within their kohl-rimmed lids and his crown of lengthy brown hair caught the light like sunshine on water. She had to admit he was sort of a pretty kid. Someday facial hair would save him from being a beautiful man.

"Ams I gay?" Toki asked, fairly certain he wasn't small _or _girlie.

"You vant to fuck boys instead of girls?" To the point.

Toki considered it. He could appreciate beauty but he didn't _really_ want to fuck_ anyone_. He'd been turned on before, he just wasn't sure it was good to think those things about an actual person, and masturbation had left a deep void in his life. But in America punishments did not leave him bleeding and years among older boys who passed around all kinds of filth in their well-creased magazines helped Toki's sex drive re-emerge.

Of course he liked kissing, but it was hard to stop himself and he hated_ that._ As far as fantasies went, mostly he dreamed of simply being important to someone. It made sense that if he was important, the rest would fall in line.

"No," he decided. "And whats is dildos?"

Livy suppressed a smile, fishing for an answer he would understand, but Toki would not receive one. Sans costume, the team mascot approached them followed by three of the more abrasive offensive linemen.

"Oooh, hanging around this tramp? Don't you know, Livy Sucks, You Bozo!" Mascot crowed.

An overweight freckle-face born for blocking made a crude sliding motion in front of his open mouth with a loosely gripped fist while simultaneously forcing his tongue into his cheek. She guessed it was to illustrate Mascot's point. Livy's face burned. The insult wasn't original and normally it wouldn't have bothered her, but this was different. Unsure if there was real meaning behind the taunt, she withdrew behind a blank, flushed expression and stared down at her lunch. They'd never say something like that to her in front of Nathan.

Suddenly Toki's sweet breath was warm on her neck as his hand slipped reassuringly into the crook of her arm. "Livy," he whispered, "remembers. Dont's lets it gets to yous."

"I wouldn't mind getting close myself," the goon continued, observing Toki. "You do got big tits for your age, girl."

"So does _he,_" Livy shot back, emboldened. "So vy aren't you harassing him about it?" She was referring to the heavyset fullback who had mimed fellatio a moment before. He sported a C cup at_ least_. "He seems to know his way around a blow job too."

That set it off. There was a space in adolescence between man and boy, and Toki was clearly on the wrong end of the spectrum for a fight. Regardless, he gave not an inch as the older boys advanced. But Lavona Succuboso didn't need protecting. The way the jocks were grouped Livy was sure a low roundhouse kick could send them sprawling. In the instance she was wrong, she'd take care of any freestanding targets with a spear hand to the throat. Maybe a hammer strike to the gut for good measure. She just hoped she could wipe the floor with them before Toki was hurt too badly.

Oddly, before anyone could make contact, Emily Breckinmeyer pushed her way through, neutralizing hostilities with an icy stare. That had never happened before. Mascot and the Letter Jackets gave her room, flanking her in confused silence.

"Pokey?" Toki and Livy just stared at her, but the queen would not be deterred.

"Pokey, do you understand me?!" Emily spoke in a loud, monotone voice as if her English words would translate into Norwegian thought better that way.

"Toki."

"Whatever. Are you related to Swi-- Ski -- ?"

"Skwisgaar? Ja," Toki lied quickly. He couldn't believe anyone would think them related, but the closer he could get to Skwisgaar the better.

"I heard he needs some help. Give him this for me." Emily thrust something bright pink in Toki's face. Underwear. Stretching them before Toki's eyes she pointed out a phone number in looping girl script scrawled across the very section of fabric made to wedge between her thighs.

Livy could hardly believe she had front row seats to the drama. Mascot and the Letter Jackets stared at Emily, wide eyed and slack jawed. Emily stared back hard, her excellent bone structure seeming to cut the air around her. Very formidable, indeed.

No, Livy was not one for gossip. But if Emily wanted to have Skwisgaar's babies, she wouldn't stand in the way of fortune. Even if it meant touching Emily's underwear.

"It's done," Livy promised, snatching Emily's unmentionables and balling them into Toki's open hand.

Forget lunch, the heat was on Emily now, and Livy couldn't be happier. As the jocks made a swift exit, eager to confirm their jilted teammate's jealous suspicions, Livy muscled through the crowd dragging Toki behind her. While her mind was on her mission, Toki's was soaring. He was elated. He held an intimate piece of the most popular girl's wardrobe but he didn't care about that -- he had a reason to talk to Skwisgaar!


	4. Chapter 4

Murderface shifted uncomfortably in his seat and cringed as the backs of his thighs ripped free of the vinyl. He had been pulled out of class at the behest of a redheaded classmate who had taken a seat immediately to his right, and now they waited for the vice principal. Murderface thought the boy looked kind of like an elf -- sharp features arranged in a listless expression, bright green eyes that turned up at the corners, and a shock of bright red hair that stuck out in soft points all over his head.

His assessment was interrupted as the door behind him opened and the vice principal entered, clutching a piping hot styrofoam cup. He and the elven boy both wrenched around in their seats, but the man motioned for the boys to remain seated as he took his seat before them. Behind his desk he looked small and impossibly young, but he had an air of no-nonsense about him. His hair was slicked back, his desk tidy. As he folded his arms across his desk his shirt didn't even wrinkle -- probably out of fear.

"Thank you, ah, Pickles. Am I... saying that right?" His voice was soft and lenient though, which made Murderface relax a little.

"Yeuh," Pickles replied.

"Sir,"

"Yeuh sir," he said. It wasn't a snarky comment, he just likely hadn't had the brain cells to know better. Vice Principal Ofdensen, as his name plate suggested, adjusted his glasses.

"Thank you for retrieving William. Do you know what this is about?" The cold eyes swiveled in behind the glass and rested their penetrating gaze on Murderface.

It could be any number of things. Murderface wasn't a trouble maker, he simply found himself in trouble. A lot. He felt his face getting hot under the intense stare. "Uhh. I'm not schure."

"We need to talk about your goat. And it is your goat, yes?" He didn't wait for Murderface to nod. He'd confirmed ownership before he'd ever sent for the boy. "Pickles here has informed me that he was left over night in the, ah, school parking, is that correct?"

"I couldn't get it home. It'sch..." he wanted to say the goat was fucked up, but he didn't think this man would appreciate it.

"I told ya, it's narcoleptic!" the redheaded boy piped. "I was only trying to help it!" The look of boredom had vanished, his eyes beady and bulging.

Charles Foster Ofdensen doubted that. He doubted it very much. The goat had chewed through the entire perimeter of the fence enclosing the football field, dragging the uprooted tree along behind it. A maintenence man had tried to stop it and lost a toe in the process, not to mention the shoe covering the toe, and had been quite upset for the loss of his Reeboks. The toe was unmentionable.

"Hey thatsch probably right, I didn't think of that." Murderface had heard of narcolepsy. He had a fear of it for about two weeks after his a woman at his grandmother's church drowned in her own cake batter at the church bake-off. People just passed out cold, whenever. That definitely sounded like the goat.

"Boys, the goat is myotonic. No amount of sleep nor stimulants--" He eyed Pickles to drive in his point, "will change that."

"It's in a _coma?_ Oh my _gad_, I didn't mean ta kill it!" Pickles blurted out, scooting to the front of his seat.

"No, not cata-- listen. Listen. When the goat is frightened, it's muscles sieze and it collapses." Blank stares. "It falls over. It is not defective, it is not ill. This type of goat simply has this trait bred into it. This is normal and acceptable."

"Whatsch the point in that?"

"Some people think it needs to be preserved. What isn't normal or acceptable," he continued, "is having the maintenance people in fear of losing their god-given appendages because you've left your goat up here unattended, William."

"Uh pleasche, Murderfacshe."

"M..Murderface, then. Do you have the means to transport the goat to your dwelling after school, or perhaps someone who can pick it up for you?"

Murderface thought. It would serve his grandmother right to have to tie a fucking wagon to her scooter and drag the goat home herself but he didn't want to be the one to tell her. It might be interesting to have the stiff-collar do it. "You could contact my grandmother. I mean, I have to return to clasch and all."

"Why is it even here, first of all? We do not allow pets on school property."

"Itsch not a pet. I want to schow it. For Ag."

"I'm afraid we do not show that type."

"Yeah we do, I've scheen the goatsch, the hornsh, the little tailsh--"

"No, I mean we do not have a division for myotonic, that is, fainting goats. Can you return your goat?" Vice Principal Ofdensen brought a coffee cup to his lips.

Goddamn James Goatwhore. No refunds. No exchanges. No delivery. "No. Juscht tell my grandma. Can I go now?" The office was getting cramped and claustrophobic.

Ofdensen narrowed his eyes. "No, we have yet to discuss the matter of punishment."

"FER WHAT?" Pickles nearly screamed. He was even more on edge than Murderface. He didn't want to stay in the office either, not any longer than it took to incriminate himself for anything else.

"It wasch all a mischunderschtanding!"

"Murderface," Ofdensen continued, ignoring the outbursts, "you merely neglected your goat, thus causing damages. Pickles, however, you have given the goat illegal stimulants --"

"It's jest an energy drink! A can of pop! What the--"

Ofdensen produced a ziplock bag from a drawer in the bowels of his desk. He folded a tissue around his fingers and reached into the bag to produce the very can Pickles had let the goat drink from. He held the can out to the boys, turned to the back where the very fine print, and read alloud: "Not for consumption of infants, pregnant women, foreigners, people with prosthetic limbs, pacemakers, those on steroids, the mentally handicapped, the psychotically enraged, fish, fish-like creatures, aquatic life, domestic breeds of mammal, flightless birds, or ruminants of a long or short-haired variety."

They stared at him in slack-jawed incredulosness.

"This means you have broken the law. The goat's toxicology screen was off the charts, the caffeine in it's system was enough to simultaneously explode the heart of the hardest working pygmy in New Guinea. And a man was harmed as a result of this tomfoolery, a man who has graciously accepted a lifetime supply of shoes with very costly insoles to dissuade him from taking this public. Either I must suspend you, give you community service, or he will go to the press and I will have to turn you over to law enforcement."

The boys blinked, almost wanting to laugh. They'd watched CSI before, but they thought this was a little overkill for a goat. Still, the wrinkles in the vice principal's forehead were not smoothing, and the corners of his mouth did not form a smile. Panic began to rise.

"I haven't broken the law!"

"A man's toe was forcibly removed from his foot, Murderface. You are a party to the offense. You are liable also. Think about it, boys. Lives ruined because of a goat you can't even show. A goat you don't own, even," he said, gesturing toward Pickles.

"Nooooo! Naht the pigs!" Pickles did not want to be likened to his brother Seth in any way, shape or form. "Listen, ah'll do whadever ya want, whatever it is, jest don't send me to jail."

"Well I don't know about that, juscht don't tell my grandma. What do you want usch to do?" Murderface could smell his grandmother's pungent odor already. It got worse as her anger escalated, and reeked from every nook, cranny and orifice. When she blinked, he wanted to puke.

"Well. I don't want to put you two together in case you come up with any more schemes like this one..."

The boys wanted to protest. They'd never spoken to each other before and certainly had not planned this. If they had planned it, they wouldn't have gotten caught.

"Pickles, take two week's detention, and you better get ahead in your work. Murderface, I want you at every meeting for the clean up crew for the month of October, and at every outing through the end of the year. Your goat did damage to school property and I want to see to it that is put to rights. And both of you have to actively participate in the next student body election."

This elicited a groan from Pickles. "I was president of the no voting club, I can't run."

"Yeah," Murderface added, "I can't keep up with a goat, never mind get elected for anything important."

"I am not proposing you run," he said with a sly smile. The very thought of these two in a position to make decisions could have incited crippling laughter if he wasn't in intimidation mode. "Just support a candidate, promote them, get people involved! I will let you know in time what I have in mind. If today's youth were just kept busy, they might not be so tempted to intoxicate goats for amusement," he said, mostly to himself. "Are we agreed or do I need officer Goatwhore down here to escort you two to the pokey?" The _pokey_. Oh that was gold.

That was all Murderface needed. Another Goatwhore to get involved. "No, no, we accshept. Don't we? Don't we!"

"Ah, I guess," Pickles grudgingly conceded.

"Good. As it is friday and most of the day has passed, the discipline will take effect starting Monday morning. I will arrange for the goat to be removed from the premises, and I look forward to seeing you both work very hard come election. Smile boys," he said, flashing an immaculate smile of his own. "That is all." Ofdensen began to shuffle some paperwork on his desk, signing and stamping, as if the boys were not even there. They were glad to be dismissed.

With the office door shut firmly behind them, they looked at each other. They had not exchanged words before, but were bound by circumstance and mutual purpose now. "We gatta get'm fer this." Pickles tightened his loose tie until it dug into his throat. He tugged on it and went cross-eyed, dangling his tongue out of his mouth to illustrate his meaning.

"Yeah. He'll wisch he'd never read that schtupid can. He'll wish he'd had hish fucking head bitten off by that goat in the end. He'll--"

"Shhh. Gatta lay low, we can't have 'em comin' back on us about whatever we do. I'll hit you up later and we'll brainstorm."

Murderface nodded as Pickles started off down the hallway to his next class, the frayed pants of his preppy-boy uniform folded underneath his grungy converse sneakers, catching dirt from the linoleum as he shuffled. He turned back to wink a green cat-eye at Murderface just as his thin frame was lost around a corner. Murderface walked the opposite direction, his simple mind attempting to plot revenge in ways that would eventually astound his partner in crime.


End file.
